A Christmas Revelation
by DianaLecter
Summary: Starling gets to relive a Christmas classic
1. The First of the Three Spirits

A Christmas Revelation  
  
Author: DianaLecter (mischalecter@hotmail.com)  
Rating: Pending  
Timeline: After the Hannibal movie. Follows cannon. Following December  
Summary: Forgive me, Mr. Dickens, but surely you know that no story is safe from being Lecterfied...do not think ill of me.  
  
~~~  
  
Paul Krendler was dead, to begin with. There was no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by his wife, the head of the Justice Department, the undertaker, and the Chief Mourner. Though Clarice Starling saw it, she never signed it. Never cared to.   
  
Paul Krendler was as dead as a doornail.  
  
Starling had never been one to readily anticipate Christmas with open arms and a smile on her face; however, the seasonal blues were especially bad this year. December was long and dull, the approach and pass of her birthday doing little more than reminding her that she was a year older. A year older, and still no wedding band on her finger, no prospective husband to place one there, as it was. Her career, the scraping she managed to collect from the sidewalk, a name tarnished from numerous dealing with a psychopath that currently resided God-knows-where.   
  
Snide nicknames and insults, the untrusting stare of her colleagues, sneers and jests, reminders and tidbits, headlines and old headlines...one would think this news would be old news, but those she associated with daily seemed determined to prove their ability to be easily amused.  
  
Such tidings left her bitter. The false promise of impending happy-times only added to her dark complexion.   
  
It was Christmas Eve, and Starling, rather than face an empty house and the bottom of a liquor bottle, was busying herself with work that she just as soon not do. The prospect of turning home tonight was not pleasant.   
  
At around seven o'clock that evening, the phone at her workstation rang sharply. She was not in the mood to talk to anyone, thus ignored it for the first few rings. However, instead of following logic and simply giving up, it shrilled to persistence, convincing her that the caller knew she was at her station. Rather harshly, she picked up the phone and barked, "Yes?"  
  
"Knew you were there."  
  
In spite of herself, Starling cracked a smile, feeling her tense nerves begin to settle. "Hi, Ardelia," she greeted with a sigh. "'Tcha up to?"  
  
"Well, considering I've placed all my energies on finding where you are for the past hour, I guess I'm at rest now. For Christ's sake, Starling, I thought work would be the last place for you tonight. Be there when yah don't have to? What's the matter with you?"  
  
"Nothing to go home to, is there?"  
  
"I see you're in one of those 'the cup is half full moods,'" Mapp remarked snidely. "Well, as I suspected you might be wallowing in self-pity this year, I thought I'd invite you over for Christmas supper."  
  
Starling smiled tightly to herself, feeling the familiar pangs of jealousy knot in her stomach. In all her years of knowing Mapp, she never expected to envy her love life. But here they were at the most unlikely of ends. It was a great surprise when she announced that she was getting married, even more so when their first child was born. Though Starling never thought of herself as the family type, it did cause her to frown at her own stage in life whenever she thought of it. And though she knew her friend's intentions were noble, she was in no mood to reminded of her own failures and loneliness tomorrow.  
  
"Thanks, 'Delia," she replied a minute later in a tone that clearly defined her refusal. "I'm just not up to it this year."  
  
There was a snort on the other line. "Bah humbug to you, then."  
  
Starling chortled appreciatively, leaning forward on her desk, work completely abandoned for the sake of good dialogue with her friend. Even if she wasn't going to join her family tomorrow, she might as well revel in what little contact was allowed now. Assuming a deeper tone, she added in sheer jest, "Any idiot who goes about with 'Merry Christmas' on his lips should be boiled with his own pudding and buried with a stake of holly through his heart."  
  
"That sounds familiar," Mapp observed. "I'm sure you have a friend who wouldn't mind boiling such an idiot."  
  
Just as easily as it was birthed, Starling's smile dissipated. One reminder was enough for tonight. Thinking of Dr. Lecter was the last thing she wanted to do. "I'd rather not discuss that."  
  
"Why not?" Either Mapp didn't hear the note of dead seriousness in Starling's voice or she was choosing to ignore it. "Honestly, girl, I'd of thought you'd be grateful to Lecter for getting rid of Krendler for you."  
  
"*Honestly* girl," Starling snapped, "I'd of thought motherhood would make you a bit more sensitive. Yeah, sure, I'm grateful. He did manage in distancing other assholes from me. They're afraid he's taking numbers, wherever he is, planning his next dinner party."  
  
There was a note of defeat on the other line. "I can't talk you out of changing your mind, can I? You really going to spend Christmas by yourself?"  
  
"I need some time to think."  
  
"You know what *I* think? I think you *think* too much. Out of all the days to think, you choose Christmas. Bah!"  
  
"Ardelia...what can I tell you? I'm just not in the spirit this year."  
  
"Starling, if there's ever a year to be in the spirit, this is it. Look at all you've been through."  
  
Closing her eyes, irritation climbing slowly, Starling clamped her teeth harshly on the inside of her cheek to defer the temptation to scream into the phone. Of all the faces of the past to surely visit her tonight, she didn't expect it to begin with Mapp's pestering. However, she could hardly cease the forage of images that were suddenly with her. She was seated at a lovely dinner table, unexpected elegance on the part of Paul Krendler. Now, she had time to wonder just how many 'personal touches' Dr. Lecter made to his comfort.   
  
"Ardelia, thanks but no thanks. I'm going home."  
  
"All right. Have it your way. Merry Christmas."  
  
At that, she snickered. "Bah. Humbug."  
  
And this time she meant it.  
  
* * *  
  
The quiet of her house was even more disturbing than was custom. Pouring herself a shot of brandy, Starling sighed and moved to her recliner. Though the room was cold, she made no attempt to ignite the fireplace. It seemed odd that she felt so fatigued after a week of inactivity, but then not odd at all, for it was the first genuine break from strenuous work she had had in ten years. The mechanics of the human body struck her as wondrous at times. During those blessed months of before the ugly raid, those days that she was constantly up to her ears in work, adrenaline pumping through her system like blood, Starling never experienced a yawn, or drowsiness, or general exhaustion at the end or beginning of any day. Now, though, now when she had the time to relax, when no one trusted her with the larger cases, when her very career dangled by a thread supported only by sympathizer Pearsall, she found herself battling with sleep every minute. Never before had she been so tired. Never before had she simply wanted to drop and drift away, preferably to never return.   
  
Perhaps sitting there she *did* drift to sleep, for the next thing Starling was aware of was the distant sound of her doorbell ringing. This naturally struck her as odd, for no one ever visited her at night. When she glanced to the clock, she noted the hour was near midnight, and a tremor of fear raced up her spine.  
  
Who, out of everyone she knew, would visit now?  
  
That was a question she didn't want to answer. Starling paused in her climb from the chair, daring for whatever it was to betray itself. No carolers were singing, no car engine was humming, no force was knocking, and-  
  
Ring, ring, ring.  
  
It came again. Thrice.  
  
Trembling, Starling forced herself to her feet. The hallway seemed much further away than she remembered, and when she finally stood in front of the door; she couldn't remember covering any of the required steps it took to arrive here. Again, she hesitated, listening.  
  
Nothing.  
  
Well of *course* he isn't going to make any noise! Open the door!  
  
Starling heard her pulse pounding in her ears as her hand grasped the doorknob. There she held, vacillated, and finally brought it open, expecting a familiar stare, followed by his customary silky greeting. However, no one was there. She paused, frowned, looked from side to side before finally giving up. Must be some teenage prank.  
  
Not three seconds after she closed the door did the bell ring again. Flustered and angry, Starling turned to it, reaching an angry hand to the knob. As her skin brushed contact, the noise intensified. Over and over, the bell rang incessantly, and she was forced to cover her ears with her hands. Instead of answering, she grumblingly accepted that the doorbell was malfunctioning, and ran back into the family room where she covered her head with one of her decorative pillows.  
  
It continued like that for a few minutes, sound continuing to grow in strength despite her attempts to cover her ears. When Starling was sure she couldn't take it anymore, the ringing abruptly stopped, leaving silence that was filled only by the remnants of echoes. The sounds bounced off the walls, weakening, before finally falling dead.  
  
But by this time, the ringing was the last thing on her mind.  
  
Standing in the middle of the room was - who appeared to be - Evelda Drumgo. This was not the Evelda she remembered; the expression wasn't scowling, and her braided hair was pulled away from her face. Though she didn't exactly carry the appearance of a heavenly visitor - safely discarding the white robes and small gold harp - she did carry enough differentiation for Starling to admit that perhaps her wits were crumpling. It occurred to her that she wasn't as surprised as she should be, or frightened, to see a woman who strongly resembled someone she knew very well to be dead standing tangibly in her living room. That single factor was enough to convince her that she was dreaming.  
  
"Who are you?" Starling asked finally, standing from her couch and edging to the entryway door.  
  
The Evelda apparition took a dramatic pause before it decided to comply, exerting a soundless breath as it did so. "In life, I was your nemesis. Your downfall. The reason this started for you. Don't you remember, Starling? Evelda Drumgo."  
  
"I don't believe that. You're dead, then. I don't believe in ghosts."  
  
"Yeah, well, neither did I. But how else would you explain me standing here?"  
  
"That could account for a lot of things. I'm very tired today. I must be dreaming," Starling decided.   
  
"Why do you doubt your senses?" the Evelda-apparition asked, cocking her head to one side.   
  
"Because a little thing can affect them. A slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheat. You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato." Starling paused and frowned at herself, wondering why this sounded familiar, yet continued just the same. "There's more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are!"  
  
The thing looked at her, slightly perplexed, but overall unaffected. With a simple shrug, it conceded. "I did not expect you to believe me, but I am here to inform you. You will be haunted by three spirits tonight."   
  
"Haunted? I think I've had enough of that."  
  
Evelda continued as though she hadn't heard her. "The first one will come when the clock tolls one...and the second at two...and so forth."  
  
Starling frowned. "Where's the originality in that?"  
  
"It's not my job to come up with new methods, Starling. I'm just the messenger."  
  
"But...honestly! Aren't you all at risk for copyright infringement or something?"  
  
"Like I said, it's not my place to worry about that shit. Besides," Evelda added thoughtfully, "I have a feeling if anyone was worried with copyright infringement, none of us would be here. Now, I'm leaving. Later, Starling."  
  
Out of everything Starling had expected from this evening, it certainly wasn't to personally relive a timeless Christmas classic. As the specter of Evelda Drumgo faded into nothing, she blinked, sighed, and sat it recount the relayed information. Expect the first ghost at one, predictably. She assumed that would be the Ghost of Christmas Past. What was there to revisit? Had she fallen so drastically out of herself that she was now as bad as the mythical Ebenezer Scrooge? If so, she really didn't care. It was the first documented year since her childhood that she was willingly skipping the holiday, and this year it was more in preservation of her sanity. There simply didn't seem to be much to celebrate.  
  
So if *that* was it...then screw it all. She didn't care. Christmas was simply a day, a holiday that is shared with family. She wasn't being unreasonable; she just wanted to be left alone. Come to think of it, she hadn't neglected to donate money to any charities (If they would rather die, they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population!), she wasn't underpaying some kind-hearted employee and refusing him the warmth of a fire as a child at home lay sick of a disease his family couldn't afford the antibiotics to. Starling was just a woman disenchanted with it all. This was the 'happiest time of the year.' Right. She bought that. The 'happiest time of the year' - falling coincidentally in the same window where most of the population sank into seasonal depression.  
  
Ghost of Christmas Past, indeed.  
  
Therefore, being truly skeptical, Starling went upstairs and climbed into bed, wondering if she could perhaps sleep through tomorrow.  
  
Of course, seeing as this is a Christmas story, and a rather poor take off of the Christmas Carol, she couldn't possibly sleep through the next day. So, predictably at one am, Starling found herself awoken by the loud and abrupt chiming of a grandfather clock she didn't remember owning.  
  
When she blinked her eyes and forced herself awake, Starling glanced at the figure at the end of her bed, blinked, then shot forward like a bat out of hell. There stood Paul Krendler, tangibly, the top of his head missing. Despite the awkwardness of his appearance, he looked rather alert and well together. Starling blinked again, this time in anger, and said rather forcefully, "What the flying fuck are you doing in my bedroom?"  
  
"Enjoying the view you never gave me in life?"  
  
"Get outta here!"  
  
"Or you'll what?" Krendler sneered, pointing to his brain that was peaking out of his head. "Eat me?"  
  
Starling's rage began to wither, and she exhaled deeply, shook her head, and studied him, eyes narrowing. "You're dead," she observed.  
  
"Gee, Starling. You're quick. It's a wonder you never got advanced."  
  
The ghost-Krendler was acting a lot like the real Krendler. Dead or alive, she didn't like him in her bedroom.  
  
"What are you doing here?" she demanded.   
  
"Didn't Drumgo tell you?"  
  
"*You're* the first ghost?"  
  
"Again, a wonder you never got your advancement."  
  
"Well, I can see there's nothing wrong with that brain of yours," Starling noted, indicating the crown of his head. "You're still not quick enough to think of a different insult in less than two minutes."  
  
While this debate could have lasted into the next century, Krendler was evidently on a rather tight time schedule. He had to have Starling through her past in an hour, before the second ghost arrived. Knowing his nonexistent sense of punctuality, she vocally expressed her cynicism before asking him to excuse himself while she changed defensively into some jeans and a sweatshirt for their festivities.   
  
"Ready?" Krendler asked impatiently as she emerged, clothed to the wazoo.   
  
"Yes."  
  
"Take my hand."  
  
Starling arched a brow and shook her head.  
  
"You have to hold onto me if we're going to get anywhere," he informed her unpleasantly, shooting a grin.  
  
Challengingly, Starling shrugged and took hold of his rather flimsy clothing. "There. Proceed."  
  
The last image she saw before the light flashed in her eyes was Krendler's annoyed expression. Starling suffered the disconcerting sensation of falling backward, back, back, back, only there was no end. Her stomach skipped and dived, and just when she was sure she was going to throw up, it stopped, and she lurched forward.  
  
When the room stopped spinning, Starling found herself lying facedown on a concrete floor that looked as though it hadn't been cleaned in years. Grimacing, she sat up and dusted herself off, shivered a bit, and finally glanced to her surroundings.   
  
It was the asylum, the asylum as she remembered it those ten years ago.   
  
As this realization became into the light, all the other horrid details of this monstrous place came soaring back. The other inmates, the frantically moving Miggs, and at the end of the hall, she saw herself, seated across from the person she knew to be Dr. Lecter. Always through the glass.  
  
Slightly unnerved, she turned to Krendler, whose state of mind, so to speak, had not improved with giant rewind they just accomplished. "Why are we here?" she demanded. "I thought we would be back in Virginia, watching some prior Christmas-"  
  
"Oh please, Starling," Krendler sneered, rolling his eyes at her. "How boring."  
  
"Then what are we doing here?!"  
  
"I'm not supposed to tell you. Now come on; I wanna see what's being said between you and lover boy up there."  
  
Starling would have smacked him if she thought it would do any good, but as it was, she understood that hitting an entity had little affect, and she didn't want to risk touching him.   
  
Once she could see the doctor, ten years younger, she felt her breath stop and her heart skip a beat. Anxiety suddenly struck every nerve, and while his eyes remained on the shadow of her, that was likewise ten years younger, she whispered frantically to Krendler, "He can't see us, can he?"  
  
"Nope. Shadows of the past, not redoing the past. Duh."  
  
"It's been a while since I read 'A Christmas Carol,'" she fired back defensively. "I doubt you ever have."  
  
"Shut up! I'm trying to listen."  
  
Though the conversation unfolding was one Starling knew by heart, she unnerved to find herself rather eager to hear it again. Hear it, watch his expression, watch herself for reaction. It felt so bizarre, being in two places at once. As she watched herself twitch uncomfortably in the chair, she felt a shiver of familiarity shiver up her spine. She could recall every feeling she experienced that day. Every emotion, every stinging insight.  
  
"Now then, tell me, what did Miggs say to you? Multiple Miggs in the next cell. He hissed at you. What did he say?"  
  
"He said: 'I can smell your cunt.'"  
  
Krendler, predictably, emitted a rich laugh. "Oh that's classic!"  
  
"Wish you'd been smart enough to think of it?" Starling retorted narrowly. "Too bad you won't have the chance now."  
  
He would have replied had the doctor not started to speak once more. Even in these, shadows as they were, he could hold attention of all present without much effort.  
  
"I see. I, myself, cannot."  
  
As Dr. Lecter started to investigate his air holes, Krendler found the time to turn to her once more and sneer, "Yeah, I'll bet he couldn't."  
  
"Closer than you'll ever come, trust me."  
  
"You use Evyan skin cream, and sometimes you wear L'Air du Temps, but not today.."  
  
"Did you do all these drawings, Doctor?"  
  
"Ah. That is the Duomo seen from the Belvedere. Do you know Florence?"  
  
"Florence!" Krendler hissed. "Florence! He told you right there where he would go. God, Starling...forget what I said about advancement."  
  
"He also told me where to find Jame Gumb, if you were paying attention, dipshit," Starling observed, feeling a rush of liberation at having the freedom to call him whatever she desired without fear of being rude. "Belvedere, Ohio, remember?"  
  
"Shut up! You're making me miss this!"  
  
Indeed, in their bickering, they had missed some of the dialogue. Grudgingly, both averted their attention back to the scene in front of them.  
  
"Why do you think he removes their skins, Agent Starling? Thrill me with your acumen."  
  
"It excites him. Most serial killers keep some sort of trophies from their victims."  
  
"I didn't."  
  
"No...no, you ate yours."  
  
"Ouch," Krendler commented. "You're quick on the uptake."  
  
Dr. Lecter had winked at her and was studying the questionnaire. Starling inwardly flinched. What was coming up had haunted her dreams for years, and though she didn't want to, she knew she had to hear it again. Even worse, she knew this would give Krendler the thrill of his...after-life.  
  
Sure enough, here it came. "Oh, Agent Starling, you think you can dissect me with this blunt little tool?"  
  
"No," came her amateur, unlearned reply. "I thought that your knowledge would-"   
  
"You're sooo ambitious, aren't you...? You know what you look like to me, with your good bag and your cheap shoes? You look like a rube. A well-scrubbed, hustling rube, with a little taste... Good nutrition has given you some length of bone, but you're not more than one generation from poor white trash, are you, Agent Starling...? And that accent you're trying so desperately to shed: pure West Virginia. What was your father, dear? Was he a coal miner? Did he stink of the lamp? And oh, how quickly the boys found you! All those tedious, sticky fumblings, in the back seats of cars, while you could only dream of getting out, getting anywhere. Getting all the way to the F...B...I..."  
  
Tears stung her eyes, as they had on multiple occasions, remembering those biting words. This was not helped with Krendler's sudden burst of laughter. Ignoring him, Starling instead swallowed her pain and averted her eyes to the shadow of herself for reaction. She was pleased to see herself holding her ground. It was as if she expected even *that* girl to burst into tears, even if she knew that wasn't what occurred. How glad she was that she walked away from Dr. Lecter dry-eyed.   
  
Well, she thought, eying Miggs uncomfortably. So to speak.  
  
"You see a lot, Doctor," she was saying. "But are you strong enough to point that high-powered perception at yourself? How about it, why don't you look at yourself and write down what you see? Maybe you're afraid to."  
  
"Zinger!" hooted Krendler. "God Starling, you really are a bitch."  
  
But she wasn't paying attention. Her eyes were captured in the surprised gaze of Dr. Lecter's pupils, and she felt herself, for the first time, reveling in the knowledge of what price such respect came at. He didn't issue it lightly. And this time, though the shadow of herself did, she didn't flinch when he slammed the food carrier back to her.  
  
"A census taker once tried to test me. I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti."   
  
"Tastified!" Krendler quipped as Dr. Lecter slurped.  
  
Starling snorted and indicated the missing crown of his head once more. "You're not one to talk there, buddy."  
  
"You fly back to school now, little Starling. Fly fly fly, fly fly fly..." And Lecter's back was to them. She watched as she stood, gathered her briefcase, and started back up the hallway.  
  
And then here it came. Miggs's howling, rolling in agony on the cot. "I bit my wrist so I can die! ...Look at the blood!"  
  
Aim. Set. Bullseye!  
  
The only thing worse from watching it from this perspective was the uninhibited laughter from Krendler. Seriously, she thought he would bust a gut, but then remembered he was already dead, before likewise recalling that she wouldn't care, even if he weren't.   
  
As Dr. Lecter yelled at her to come back (Starling watching her own face, remembering the thought that arose: What do I want this much?), she turned to Krendler and said, "Enough of this shit. What did that have to do with anything?"  
  
Having recovered from his hysterics, the ghost sneered at her in a failed attempt to make her feel three-inches tall. "You're supposed to figure it out, Starling. Now come on. We gotta train to catch."  
  
And as she saw herself running down the hallway, Starling felt the ground beneath her feet vanish once more. Then they were going forward. It was a short trip, and she found herself outside a cage in Memphis.   
  
The dialogue was in precision. They arrived just in time to hear him say, "People will say we're in love."  
  
"Ah, so I can finally see what went down here," Krendler said smugly. For years, he had accused her of performing for the doctor in order to obtain Buffalo Bill's identity. Starling looked at him with an arched brow and shrugged, knowing he would learn nothing outside what was already known.  
  
Thus, this conversation proved amusing, simply for Krendler's disappointed expression. It wasn't until Pembry and Boyle were dragging her away that Starling became apprehensive. She heard Dr. Lecter call back for her, saw herself running for her case file, and even then, standing from the side, out of sight, she felt herself shiver with the touch they shared.  
  
And before she could recollect herself and gloat at Krendler, they were headed forward again. This time, they traveled far, far enough for her to speculate that they were not revisiting any more memories from his custody.   
  
No, the next and last place they stopped was achingly familiar. It was only a few months in her past.  
  
Unfortunately, they arrived too late for her to witness the actual sawing of Krendler's head, but watching his dumbfound expression left her with a sensation quite unlike that her shadow was sharing. Instead, Starling started laughing, started, and couldn't stop. It was so deliciously rich!  
  
"Who's Clarice?" the shadow-Krendler asked, increasing her hysterics.  
  
"Agent Starling, Paul. If you can't keep up with the conversation, you better not join in at all."  
  
"I must admit," she said to Krendler, who was fuming, touching the top of his head now as if he only just realized it wasn't there. "This is rather enjoyable. Gives me new perspective."  
  
"Shut up!"  
  
"Given the chance, you would deny me my life, wouldn't you?"  
  
"Not your life."  
  
Starling felt her insides churn. This was something else she didn't care to remember.   
  
"My freedom, just that, you'd take that from me? And if you did, would they have you back, do you think? The FBI? Those people you despise almost as much as they despise you? Would they give you a medal, Clarice, do you think? Would you have it professionally framed and hang it on your wall was a reminder of your courage and incorruptibility?" A beat, a sad smile, and for the first time, she felt herself ache. "All you would need for that, Clarice, is a mirror."  
  
The expression on his face tugged at her heartstrings, something she hadn't expected. She suddenly felt very cold, very alone. Remorse inevitably set in, and Starling thought she might start to cry, had Krendler's shadow not interrupted.  
  
"I had plans for that smart mouth but there ain't no way I'm gonna hire...yous now..."  
  
And just like that, she was laughing again. The expression on the Krendler beside her was enough to keep her giggling for the next decade. Instead, she found herself whisked quickly to the kitchen. Inside, she saw herself pressed against the refrigerator. Starling had to regulate her breathing, knowing her guide would go nuts over the next part. Oddly, this she approached without trepidation.   
  
She saw the look on her face and had the sudden desire to march over to herself and slap her silly.   
  
"I came halfway around the world to watch you run, Clarice. Let me run, hmm?"  
  
"How touching," Krendler commented, trying to regain dignity. But she wasn't paying attention.   
  
Starling watched as she lunged forward again and was wrestled back. Her hair disappeared into the refrigerator door, and her breath hitched in her throat.  
  
"Tell me, Clarice...would you ever say to me, stop? If you loved me, you'd stop?"  
  
"Not in a thousand years."  
  
Starling's stomach churned. The disconcerting temptation to hit her shadow struck her again, though she avoided it. Why should she lash out at the truth, especially if it was a truth she still believed in?  
  
Unless...  
  
"Not in a thousand years?" He leaned in close. "That's my girl."  
  
The commentary that Dr. Lecter's kiss arose from Krendler went ignored. Instead, Starling watched herself cuff him, watched the events that followed with a flinch, and shuddered. It wasn't until the shadow of the doctor had hurried out of the room that she realized she was crying. This disturbed her more than anything she had seen tonight, for she didn't know herself to shed tears often. The source of these tears terrified her, and while her guide jested at her, she didn't hear him. All she knew was she was crying, aching, and there was nothing she could do about it.  
  
When the teasing finally stopped and her outburst calmed, Starling breathed slowly and opened her eyes. She was surrounded in the warmth of her room, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt but enveloped in her blankets.   
  
Hot tears skated down her cheeks, and she angrily brushed them away.  
  
"Fool!" she hissed at herself. "Getting worked up over nothing! It was a dream! Go back to sleep!"  
  
In the minutes that followed, emitting deep breaths, she calmed and reclined on the mattress. Her thoughts jumbled, though she didn't dare try to justify why she would have reacted so violently, even if it were a dream. All she wanted to do was sleep and forget, sleep and forget.  
  
Then the clock chimed two. 


	2. The Second of the Three Spirits

In reality, Starling suspected that she had little to fear with the appearance of the second specter. She had already faced Paul Krendler, and even if the subsequent ghosts consisted of Jame Gumb, Mason Verger, or whoever God, in all His perverted humor, decided to send her, no one could possibly outdo him on her 'I-wish-he-were-alive-so-that-I-could-kill-him-again-and-freakin'-enjoy-it-this-time' list. Thus, she felt no trepidation in sitting forward to wait for whatever apparition it was to present itself.  
  
Two o'clock and nothing...   
  
Tick tock tick tock tick tock...   
  
Letting out a grateful sigh, as she was rather sleepy, Starling smiled tightly to herself. "Nothing...nothing. Excellent. Bedtime!"  
  
Predictably, as she snuggled once more in the comfort of her bed, a sudden foray of noise burst in from the lower floor. Starling screamed, eyes wide and alert, and she leaped to her feet, racing out the door and down the stairs as quickly as her legs would carry her. She halfway expected the noise to shy from her presence and flee. Instead, it increased in pulsation, and she knew she would have to shut it up before some angry bitch across the street called the cops on her for disturbing the peace.   
  
When she entered her living room, Starling experienced a rush of shock, followed by joy. Dancing to some bad disco on the coffee table was Jack Crawford, wearing a cheap party hat and a hula skirt. The sheer relief she felt in seeing him again immediately excused the general weirdness of his attire, and she felt herself brighten, unable to contain her screech of glee.   
  
"Mr. Crawford!"  
  
Abruptly, in time with the random scratch of a record, the music ceased and he stopped to stare at her. "Oh. Hello Starling. Sorry...I was just...ummm..."  
  
It was as if her eyes were opened. She blinked and stared at him, looking him up and down. "Mr. Crawford...?"   
  
"Yeah...I was just...enjoying the...umm...afterlife."   
  
"I see." She paused. "Wait...why are you the second ghost? You died before Paul Krendler, and were really in more of my past to begin with, and-"  
  
"Would you rather have Paul Krendler here?" he asked skeptically.  
  
"No!" She screamed, panicked that her late mentor might fade away to leave her again with Krendler, simply because she couldn't keep her big mouth shut. "No, of course not! I was just-"  
  
"Well, according to the book..." Crawford broke off, looking to his hula skirt and presenting her with a copy of 'A Christmas Carol.' "...the second ghost is supposed to be the one that you learn the most from. We didn't think that you'd listen to Paul Krendler." After a minute, he added, "He wasn't supposed to come, anyway. He just whined and complained and offered the conductor of this shindig-extravaganza some Cuban cigars and a Willie Nelson CD. Besides, everyone else was booked."  
  
"Booked?"  
  
"Yeah. Really booked, for this year. Besides, this isn't supposed to make sense, is it?"  
  
The serious look on Crawford's face was singularly counterpoint to the absurdity of his garments, and Starling, arching a brow, shrugged and nodded. "I guess not." She looked up again, eying the book in his grasp. "Are you guys going by everything in that story?"  
  
Crawford shrugged. "Well, none of us have been dead for very long, so we're not really sure what we're supposed to do. Right now, this book is our Bible." Then, drawing in a deep breath, he started to sing randomly, "Oh, the B-I-B-L-E! Yes THAT'S the book for me! I-"  
  
"Mr. Crawford!" Starling screamed, her hands protectively covering each ear.  
  
"Sorry. One thing you learn when you're dead; horrible impulses are much harder to resist."  
  
"WHY?"   
  
"Because we don't care anymore," Crawford replied simply, shrugging again. "Who's going to hear you? Other ghosts. Do they care? No...cause they're doing it themselves. I'm going to have to get into mortal-mode around you, I guess."  
  
It was odd, seeing the prim and stern-face Mr. Crawford acting so carefree. When he was alive, he was always the epitome of properness and never tolerated nonsense, even if they weren't working. Occasionally, they went to movies together on the weekends, and even then, he hardly allowed himself to drop the stone façade. Never in her wildest would Starling have ever consented the probability, in life or death, that Crawford would wear a hula skirt and burst into random song whenever he felt like it.  
  
Suddenly, the afterlife was sounding superior to this earthly life.  
  
"The freedom must be nice," she observed.  
  
"It is," he agreed. "Blissfully so. But don't go getting any funny ideas."  
  
"Don't worry."  
  
"Good," Crawford replied with a conclusive nod.   
  
"So you go by the book?" she asked again, not knowing why the subject fascinated her so, but wanting to know, nonetheless.  
  
"Not exactly." Flipping open a page, he held it up to eyesight, but didn't offer it to her. "You see...it's a guideline. Otherwise, I'd be saying, 'Come in! And know me better, man!' That can be taken so many ways nowadays."  
  
Starling rolled her eyes. "Thanks to the likes of people like Paul Krendler."  
  
"All right, are you ready then?"  
  
She shrugged. "As ready as I'll ever be. This is Christmas Present, correct?"  
  
Crawford started to answer, paused, considered, and replied hesitantly: "Weeeeellll, sort of."  
  
"Sort of?" She frowned, puzzled. "Wait a tick, if this shit doesn't have anything to do with Christmas, then why the hell are you guys bothering?"  
  
"Let me finish," he said insistently. "It doesn't have anything to do with you not having the Christmas spirit. That's a bunch of bull crap. No one up there really gives a damn. It's just a holiday. I mean, what about Jews? Do they have to have the Christmas spirit? And Muslims? And Shintoists? And Buddhists? And then there's ATHIESTS. If they were going to get anyone in the Christmas spirit, I'd imagine they'd start with the ATHIESTS, don't you? The list goes on and on. No one cares. Do you get the picture?"  
  
Starling didn't want to vocally separate herself from any deity, especially tonight, as it was a holy night in many facets. There was something about stating such an acclamation aloud that unnerved her, thus she merely nodded her understanding. "Okay then," she continued after a minute. "Then what does this have to do with me?"  
  
"Well, you're unhappy, right?"  
  
She hesitated. The answer, of course, was yes, but she wasn't too keen on admitting why. Firstly to herself, and especially to this man.  
  
As she paused and debated, Crawford's eyes narrowed. "Starling, I can't judge you. You'll find, amongst other things, that death really liberates you." In considering his attire, she accepted this as the truth. "And you can't hide yourself. You are unhappy, and everyone knows why."  
  
"*Everyone*?"  
  
"Well..." Crawford's eyes drifted to the ceiling, and he nodded upward. "They do up there, anyway."  
  
"And they don't care?"  
  
"They understand," he corrected. "You can't help it if you're unhappy. At least without knowing the symptom, so's you can start working on the cure."  
  
"But...don't...I got the impression from Krendler that they think it's..." she leaned in for effect, though knowing somewhere that she was being overdramatic. "*Him.*"  
  
At that, Crawford smiled kindly. "There are some things even He doesn't know," he said, again indicating to the ceiling with his eyes. "Whether or not your sadness involves Lecter doesn't really matter, Starling. As long as you know what it is."  
  
"But if it does...and that's a big IF," she ventured, "what can I do about it? Surely you're not supposed to encourage me to..."  
  
Crawford held up a hand. "I'm not supposed to do anything but show you how you might be able to get happier for Christmas. The day itself doesn't matter, like I said. It's the *impression* of what you're supposed to feel during the season. There's a *reason* you're upset, and we're just trying to help you figure that out, so maybe next year, or even tomorrow, as the case may be, you'll have found your root of happiness and won't be pressured to feel something you're not during the holidays. Does that make sense?"  
  
Uncertainly, she replied, "I...guess..."  
  
With a chuckle, he shrugged again. "It's hard to understand what isn't understood, but someday, you'll understand it. Understood?"  
  
"...what?"  
  
"Yeah...let's go."  
  
"Okay..." Starling fumbled for words, trying to recall something Scrooge-ish to say, even if their cases were not similar, as Crawford had indicated. "Spirit, conduct me where you will," she said, unsure of her words, even if they sounded good. "I went last time and started to learn a lesson. Now, if you're gonna teach me, let me profit by it."  
  
"Not bad," Crawford said approvingly, flipping through his complimentary copy of the novel. "That was almost verbatim. You always were an over achiever, Starling. Now, grab hold of my hula skirt."  
  
The sentence in itself was so comically bizarre that she had a difficult time containing her mirth as she grasped a handful of straw. If Crawford noticed, he didn't mention it.   
  
Starling prepared for another uncomfortable trip, recalling the speed and abrupt stops she encountered with Krendler. However, when she opened her eyes to find herself standing outside, she blinked, having not felt a thing.  
  
A minute later, this was not so mysterious. Of course! They had no traveling to do, anyway. It was simply a few hours ahead, the next morning.   
  
Even though the temperature was slightly nippy - (she knew this the way those who *were* on the streets were bundled up) - Starling noted that her sweatshirt and jeans were keeping her perfectly insulated, and furthermore, that Crawford wasn't complaining about the weather. Though he was dead and most likely couldn't experience a good-to-honest chill, the hula skirt didn't look too protective of the leg area.  
  
"So what are we doing here, anyway?" Starling asked. "What am I supposed to learn from the present? Something about a crippled kid?"  
  
Crawford gave her a dubious look. "Do you know any crippled kids?"  
  
"No."  
  
"There's your answer. No, we're going to visit your former roommate."  
  
"Ardelia?" Starling frowned. "Why?"  
  
"You'll see. Come on, now."   
  
They were, indeed, not too far from the place Mapp now resided with her husband. Mapp. Starling shook her head. She would never get used to her friend's new last name. Years of writing her name out on paper as Mapp rendered her with the disability to add that one singular change to the list of everything else that now differed in her life.   
  
"Are you just going to stand there?" Crawford asked. "Let's go in."  
  
"In?"  
  
"Sure."  
  
Starling paused. "How?"  
  
"Since these are shadows, we can walk right through them," he explained, outlining the exterior wall with his hands. "Watch. Come on." Stepping demonstratively to the front door, he hopped through the material and out again, showing open palms and grinning ridiculously. "Ta da!"  
  
"That's all well and good for you," Starling snickered. "You're a ghost. You're used to that shit."  
  
"Come on!" Crawford said impatiently, rolling his eyes. "It's easy. Watch!" Again, he resorted to hopping through the barrier, apparently enjoying himself. After a few tries, he gained speed, forgot about her, and focused on further amusing himself.  
  
Starling covered her face and glued her eyes on the ground. "Watch it!" she warned. "You're showing me a little more than I care to see there, buddy."  
  
The incessant hopping ceased as he went red in the cheeks, looking down and smoothing out his skirt with an embarrassed shrug and high-pitched chuckle. "Sorry, there," he excused. "Let's-erm-go in."  
  
Not entirely convinced, but tired enough of standing outside, Starling decided to trust him and approached. After all, what was the worst that could happen? She could be knocked out, or knocked *in* to her senses. Maybe she would wake up from whatever horrific nightmare this was to trade for a more peaceful sleep.  
  
She was almost disappointed when she stepped successfully through the door, noting it felt little different than being blasted with a foray of air.  
  
Christmas-breakfast smells were in the air, and she drew them in appreciatively. Crawford, at her side, pointed to the dining room, and she followed his direction. Starling hadn't seen her friend's new house since she moved in three months before, and took a minute to admire the assorted holiday decorations; some she recognized, others she classified as belonging to Mapp's - Ardelia's - husband.   
  
The scene was picturesque, and it made her heart flutter. A visibly pregnant Ardelia serving her daughter and husband some homemade breakfasty-goodness. All adoring eyes were alight and they were smiling, laughing, loving each other. It looked like a Hallmark commercial.   
  
Though Starling wasn't the type for gushiness, this made her ache. She bit her lip and turned to address Crawford, but he was across the room, admiring his droll appearance in one of the mirrors, and even attempting at what appeared to be his version of dancing.   
  
Rolling her eyes, unsure if her former approval of the new and improved Jack Crawford was still one hundred percent intact, Starling turned back to Ardelia's family and sighed.  
  
What was here that she wanted? What was here that made her hurt so much?   
  
A flash. Thirty minutes ago, she was standing in the late Paul Krendler's summer home kitchen - in the presence of the one and thankfully only late Paul Krendler himself - watching her shadow say horrible things, cold things. Things that made her want to hit herself. Why? And what relevance could it possibly hold here?  
  
Then she remembered waking up, or returning to find herself in bed, crying uncontrollably for a reason she could not explain. Could not...or would not?  
  
And then it hit her, standing there, watching the loving exchanges between husband and wife.   
  
Companionship.  
  
With whom? Anyone in general?  
  
No...not that simple.   
  
Lost in a swirl of confusing thoughts, Starling was brought back by sudden, abrupt singing from behind her. Evidently absorbed in his dance, Crawford belted, "Mele Kalikimaka is the thing to say on a bright Hawaiian Christmas Day! That's island greeting that they send to you in the land where palm trees swaaaayyyy! Here we know that Christmas will be green and bright-"  
  
"Mr. Crawford!"  
  
Hastily, he stopped, arms falling flatly to his sides. "Oh. You done?"  
  
"Done with *what*? Is there something I'm supposed to do here?"  
  
"Reminiscing, thinking, all that BS. We can go now, if you want."  
  
"Go where?"  
  
"One more stop, Starling...to try and help you figure things out." Crawford nodded for the door.   
  
Travel this time was different than before. Instead of feeling like the waves of a remote control stuck infernally on fast-forward or rewind, Starling found herself drifting quite pleasantly. When they stopped, she found herself outside a residence she had never before seen, in a place she might as well not know existed. Blinking, she turned to Crawford, who was visibly rather aware of where they were and asked, "Did we take a wrong turn?"  
  
"Nope. Buenos Aires is lovely this time of the year, isn't it?" he said, apparently lost in thought. Once he returned to himself, he shook his head and pointed to the door. "But that's beside the point. Inside, Starling. Hustle, hustle!"  
  
The fingers of dread grasped her heart and squeezed mercilessly as she realized whose abode this must be. Pursing her lips, she looked pitifully to Crawford, hoping she had heard wrong, and that they didn't have to see what he was doing, alone and injured on Christmas. At this point, she *really* didn't care to.  
  
"Mr. Crawford..." she ventured cautiously. "I thought you hated Dr. Lecter. That's always been my consensus. Why show me someone you hate if it's apart of my problem?"  
  
"Or solution?" he added helpfully, not a bitter note evident in his tone.  
  
"Solution?"  
  
"Starling, when you die, you come to some divine realizations. Like, in life I might have hated green olives, but now they taste heavenly, if you pardon the pun," Crawford explained. "I hated Dr. Lecter, yes. I sent you to him, though, and that's apart of my reckoning. The most important thing to me as far as you're concerned is your happiness and satisfaction. If Dr. Lecter is an equation in that problem, I don't care to stand in the pathway to the solution, you see?"  
  
The last thing she needed was the one voice she valued above everyone, other than her father, pushing her toward Dr. Lecter if it was her resolve to fight him. "I think I liked you better alive," she decided. "It wasn't as confusing."  
  
"Life is full of lies," Crawford commented narrowly. "In death, we have truth and realizations; you can't hide anything on this side. "Confusion hides the larger problem, what you see but don't want to grasp, or grasp but don't want to see."  
  
"Stop!" Starling covered her ears, turning away from him, his words echoing like a perverse riddle she didn't want to know the answer to. "Let's go inside and get this cursed journey over with."  
  
And inside they went. Starling stood immobile in the doorway for a minute, eyes shut as her pounding heart echoed with fervor in her ears. Her pulse raced and her breath hitched, though her other senses betrayed her. Immediately, she noted the warmth and the pleasant smells. The aura that was so...*him*. In defiance, she clamped down hard on the inside of her cheek, but to little avail. The thought came and remained stubbornly, refusing to grant her leave.  
  
A hand was at her shoulder. "Come on...the sooner you see him, the sooner we can leave."  
  
Starling drew in a deep breath and forced her eyes open. The interior was stunning, though she expected no less. Nothing short of grandiose, impressive without appearing egotistical, however much she knew that the doctor had plenty of esteem.  
  
Soft piano music drifted through the halls. Crawford, leading the way, walked in its direction. Candles were aligned in the window ceils, and though they were allegedly not to be seen, the small fires flickered, almost touched, as they passed. It was the only festive decoration set in the house, and could have easily been dismissed for simple approval of their finishing touch.   
  
Starling found herself thankful of that. Knowing Dr. Lecter was about as keen on Christmas as she was gave her a sense of satisfaction, though she didn't think to register why that was.   
  
The entrance into the main parlor was not overdramatic: rather, quite contrary, short and immediate. Dr. Lecter was seated in an elegant robe at the piano, hands tickling the keys masterfully. In place of sheet music was instead a collage of newspaper clippings that held her face. Starling felt something run cold yet simultaneously warm within her. His left hand was scarred, not visibly, but enough to make her flinch.   
  
He was as alone as she was today. That thought left her satisfied and similarly disconcerted. Alone...when they could be...  
  
"Jack," she said painfully, closing her eyes, barely aware of the abnormal familiarity in which she addressed him. "Please...take me back."  
  
"You sure?"  
  
"Yes!"   
  
The scene before her melted into a rummage of colors, swirled for a few minutes before again unfolding on her street. When she looked to Crawford, he was popping some pills into his mouth, as he had almost regularly in life. She smiled at the image it offered, even if his crown was adorned with a party hat. Inside, though, she was still trembling with the scene they just left, and what it meant for her.  
  
"This is where I leave you, then," Crawford announced.   
  
Starling heard warning bells sounding somewhere. It hadn't occurred to her that he wouldn't host her through the future, though she knew, in referring to the text, that it had to be so. Coldness grasped her at the thought of who was to follow him, but she dare not ask. "I'll take what you gave me," she said. "Thanks, Mr. Crawford."  
  
"No problem, Starling. Take care."  
  
And, without any colossal goodbye, he, too, simply melted into the scenery, leaving her alone on the street in front of her house.  
  
But Starling, wiser now, knew she could not go inside. For in checking her watch, she registered it was almost three, and the last of the spirits would be presenting itself shortly.  
  
*** 


	3. The Last of the Three Spirits

Not even an hour ago, Starling had told herself that she didn't care what ghost might follow Krendler, for none could possibly measure up to him. Now, in recalling the final installment of the original story itself, she was unsure of her conviction. The last spirit supposed to be the worst. So, there, standing in submissiveness this cold December evening, her mind filled the void of waiting by making idle speculation of whom she might expect. After all, who could be worse than Krendler?  
  
In the course of her life, Starling had seen much death, witnessed abundant pain, and endured, personally, deep suffering. The last entity, she concluded, could come in any shape. Her father, perhaps, but she didn't think so. That face was apart of her past, not her future. If he had planned on coming, it would have been in Krendler's time slot. Unfortunately, the 'conductor,' as Crawford called him, had been sold with Cuban cigars and Willie Nelson CDs. Maybe, in his place, the last spirit would be Mason Verger, but she doubted it. In the grand scheme of things, he wasn't a threat to her in life. To Dr. Lecter, yes, but never to her.  
  
The gap of not knowing was decisively uncomfortable.  
  
Fortunately, the third and final ghost had more of an eye for punctuality, thus Starling had little time to dread. Not three seconds after her watch hit the designated time did a black cloud of smoke begin to collect visibly down the street. She turned to face it, determined not to shrink in the face of peril, should it carry the unpleasantness she feared. Drawing in a breath, she watched as it formed a shape, a tangible shape, not blinking, eyes set in firm determination.  
  
It occurred to her, briefly, that she didn't want to see what the future held, but she knew she had no choice.  
  
The smoke started to dwindle and fade, and a figure stood there in its place. She couldn't make out its face, but it was obviously male. The manner in which he carried himself was familiar, terribly familiar, and after a moment's thought, she had it. And what a blessed remedy it was! However, her excitement dwindled rapidly, and again, dread set in. While warm relief tickled her nerves, she sensed something dark, dangerous, and mysterious about him. And Starling, for the first time this evening, felt the nearly irresistible temptation to turn and run hard in the other direction. That singular notion in itself was terribly disconcerting, for this being, this man before her, was one she would have thought to welcome with open arms and a smile on her face.  
  
The shell of a creature he was now...  
  
Starling swallowed hard as he began the approach. When only a foot or so separated them, she emitted a breath and heard herself meekly ask, "John?"  
  
The figure seemed to consider her, hesitating a brief second before nodding his acknowledgement. Up close, now, Starling could clearly see the shadow of the man she knew in life, hidden behind many layers of darkness, enveloped into something nearly unrecognizable.  
  
Releasing a quivering breath, Starling looked him up and down slowly, aching for an exterior affirmation that this was indeed John Brigham. He was adorned completely in long black robes that extended to the ground in almost a duplication of the film characterization of Professor Snape. His eyes were yellow, like a cat's, though behind them, when she looked hard enough, she saw enough of him and his earthly kindness to feel an inkling of relief. An inkling, and nothing more.  
  
It was enough.  
  
"John, what happened to you?" Her voice carried more conviction now, and her feet, for the moment, weren't going anywhere.   
  
"I'm here," he said obviously, no hint of answer or preamble on his tone, voice raw with disuse. "I'm here to show you your future." He paused with emphasis. "One possible future." A breath, as though it was difficult to speak and function, even when bodily mechanisms were no longer essential. "I wasn't supposed to tell you that, but it's important that you...that you know."   
  
Frustrated at his failure to answer her inquiry and more than a little unsettled as his forewarning, she started to reach for him but thought the better of it. "Brigham," she said sternly. "Why do you appear to me as so? You were a good man in life. Why this? Why are you like this?" She paused suddenly as the plausible, unthinkable answer arrived. It was a terrible thought, though she continued, almost afraid of her reply. "Did you do something to condemn yourself?" She didn't want anything to disillusion herself of the man she knew to be so thoroughly good, but likewise knew it was better to have the truth than live in a shamble of it.  
  
Looking terribly pained, Brigham resisted a minute, then nodded. "Yes. The same you are doing, Starling." He took a nonexistent breath, noting her shocked expression immediately.   
  
"What do you mean?" she snapped, once her breath had found her again.  
  
"Why do you think Jack Crawford, in death, is so happy?"  
  
That argument took her completely off guard, and rather than wait as she fumbled for an answer, he impatiently hissed, "Because he is fulfilled! Because, in death, he has his Bella! His affairs are in order! He has...everything!"  
  
Startled and perplexed, Starling could only stare at him in wonder. After a minute, when she found herself, all she could do was croak, "And I don't?"  
  
Brigham opened his mouth to reply, but likewise snapped it shut the next instant, shaking his head. "I've told you too much as it is," he muttered. "I'm supposed to *show*, not tell."  
  
Starling bit her lower lip in uncertainty. The future, with this dark and bleak tour guide, had the air of unpleasantness in it. She recalled the story as it was in the text, the horrible, disturbing images Scrooge was forced to witness. At the minute, it didn't seem important that the night's answers might unlock the door to her salvation. Starling had seen enough doom in this world to last her ten lifetimes...plus two. "Ummm...John...I'm not sure I want to see. Can't you just tell me? Can't I just take your word for it?"  
  
"I wish I could," he replied regretfully. "But you need to see." There was a significant pause as he considered, speaking again after a minute of forethought. "I'm here as a warning to you, Starling. To show you what you could become. To you, I always represented the 'good' of the FBI. The last of it."  
  
"But-"  
  
"It'll make sense, I promise." Slowly, he reached for a bit of his dark cloak, extending it to her. "Come, there is much to see."  
  
Hesitating once more, knowing it was the last time she could, Starling closed her eyes and said softly, "Ghost of the Future, I fear you more than any specter I have yet seen. But, as I know your purpose is to do me good, and as I hope to live as a more liberated individual than who I was, I am prepared to bear your company..." She paused, drew in a deep breath, nodded, and continued, "And do it with a thankful heart."  
  
"Very big of you, Starling," Brigham said, curling his darkened lips over yellow teeth. "I know you can do this. It's for your own good. Now, take my cloak."  
  
Swallowing the lump in her throat - no easy task - Starling nodded, her eyes falling to the extended fabric. With the last bit of vacillation, she reached out, hovered above it before finally exhaling and seizing a handful.   
  
Instinctively, she slammed her eyes shut and bit her lower lip, waning any impending pain away. They were instantly whisked forward, not as forward as she would have liked, but far enough for her to contrive the idea of how much older she might be. The implication in itself chilled her to her very core.   
  
When the motion stopped, Starling took a minute to settle herself, breathing harshly as though she had just finished a jogging course. Brigham tugged her arm by moving forward, and she tumbled after him, her eyes falling open in surprise.   
  
"This is Quantico," she whispered.  
  
"It is."  
  
"Why are we here?" She had the terrible intuition that she didn't want to know.   
  
"Come."  
  
Inside the halls, walking through passages that she knew terribly well, Starling drew in a breath and held it. All around her, people were speaking excitedly, huddled in corners, at the vending machines, talking...talking...  
  
"Did you hear?" one whispered. "She hasn't spoken in days."  
  
"I wouldn't doubt it," replied the conversationalist. "She always has had a thing for him, I think. Even if she didn't want to admit it."  
  
"Well, she brought it on herself."  
  
"When did they do it?"  
  
"Yesterday, I think. She was invited. Dunno if she went or not. She's kept to herself."  
  
"So the bastard's dead?"  
  
"Yeah, that's for sure."  
  
The two snickered privately and continued with this conversation until they were far out of earshot. Trembling, Starling turned to Brigham for words of comfort, but he looked grave, and had none to offer.   
  
"John," she said slowly. "I see. The case of this...person...might well be my own. My life tends that way now." Tears began to fill in her eyes, but she sniffed hard and dared not shed them. "But I don't want it to. What is this?!"  
  
"You must see for yourself," he retorted monotonously, though his lip quivered as he battled visibly for the release to tell her. Slowly, he pointed down the corridor, a familiar pathway.   
  
Ignoring him, Starling shook her head furiously, tears striking her again, though she held them at bay. "Please! Let me see some tenderness connected with this death, John, or that conversation will haunt me forever."  
  
Brigham, not replying, simply maintained his point, eyes staring dead ahead. Without needing further direction and knowing she could coax no words from him, Starling traced the steps that she knew would lead to her very own office.   
  
When she said she wanted to see tenderness in relation to the death, she meant for it to be anyone's but her own. Such only confirmed her fear, and tears, expectedly, could no longer be helped. They poured mercilessly down her cheeks as she beheld her own image, a woman visibly in mourning, discarding the pile of work on her desk, staring forlornly out the window. As she had stood at that exact position many times, Starling knew that the shadow of herself stood there not for the scenery.   
  
The woman she watched was crying, not audibly, but they shared a similar grief.   
  
"Sad, isn't it?"  
  
Starling jumped but didn't turn to Brigham. She didn't need to.   
  
"John..." she whispered after a moment of silent reverence, "why am I sad?"   
  
"You have lost someone dear to you," he answered simply, his tone indifferent. "You have realized the price of your reinstatement."  
  
At that, she turned to him, her eyes sharp. "What do you mean?"  
  
Like his voice, Brigham's eyes were unresponsive, not reacting to her pain, though visibly rehearsed. She still thought he wanted to tell her something, even if he had contained himself.   
  
"Starling, look at yourself," he said, pointing to the image of her in the window. "What do you see?"  
  
Slowly, exerting a deep breath, she turned again to view the person she didn't want to see, the sadness she didn't want to exist, the impending future that undoubtedly loomed nearby. After studying her, her red-rimmed eyes darting every which direction until she knew she couldn't avoid it any longer. "I don't know," she whispered, flushed and tense.   
  
"You see yourself," Brigham said simply. "Starling, that is you, and you have everything you have ever wanted in your professional career."  
  
She blinked, her heart skipping a beat. "What?"  
  
"That respect you always wanted? The fame? The advancement? The coveted place women aren't supposed to acquire? It's all there, Starling. You have it now. All yours." His tone changed notes, coaxing her to turn and face him once more. "Everything you want, Starling. And yet..."  
  
"WHAT?!" The anticipation was killing her, nearly to the point of tackling him, with all the good it would do.  
  
Brigham stood aside, pointing in the other direction, away from the office. "Come, and you will see."  
  
Happy for the invitation, Starling quickly covered the threshold. No sooner had she crossed the line did the scene before her melt into nonexistence and reemerge outdoors. The skyline was dark, overcast, but not night. Bitter winds nipped at her flesh, even as she was allegedly protected from such, given this was a shadow and nothing more.  
  
Starling knew where she was instantly.  
  
"John..." she whispered. "Why?"  
  
"Because you asked," he answered simply. "Because you need to see." Slowly, he raised his hand and pointed once more. "There. There is the object of your hunt, the query of your plight. There is what you need to see, what you don't want to see. There you must go."  
  
The steps she took were long and made her legs numb. Slow, delayed, over-pronounced and demanding friction. Her heart rattled in her chest, her throat chilling, her skin growing numb all over. Snow covered the ground, and the face of the stone as she knelt beside it. Trembling, she turned back to Brigham, who stood directly behind her, imploring him to tell her not to look.  
  
No such sympathy was acquired from his face.   
  
"John..." her voice was meek, on the verge of begging. "Please. A person can change, you know. A life can be made right. My course does foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in, it must lead here. But if my course can be departed from, the ends will change. Say that is so with what you show me!"  
  
"Just look, Starling."  
  
Her vision blurred with tears as her hand, shaking with reluctance, outstretched to bid the commands of her mind, however much she yearned to pull back. And as she brushed the snow away, she collapsed atop the tomb, sobbing openly.  
  
'Hannibal Lecter'  
  
"NO!" she screamed as her sobs diminished enough to allow such a cry. "NO! Tell me it isn't so!"  
  
"It is," Brigham whispered. "Don't you see, Starling? Your heart remains loyal to your tormentors. You know where he is now, don't you? Jack Crawford took you there. To Buenos Aires. You saw...and you went there, didn't you? You finished the job. Only you could do it. You and you alone. His downfall, his weakness, it's all there. And now..." his voice grew low and menacing. "You have everything you could possibly want in your career. With Lecter dead, because of your direction-"  
  
"NO!" Starling screamed. "These are shadows! This isn't life! One action outweighs another!"  
  
"Do you honestly believe you can return, knowing where he is, and keep your mouth shut?"  
  
She whipped her head up to stare at him angrily, but saw clearly that this was true, and her tears came again. Harder this time, uninhibited from prior restraints.  
  
"Tell me what I must do!" Starling choked, bringing the back of her hand to her face, wiping in one furious motion. "Tell me!"  
  
Finally, the control, which she had ebbed all night, broke in one glorious momentum. Eyes ablaze, Brigham drew her to her feet and snarled, "You still don't see, do you?"  
  
"No!"  
  
"Don't you know where you're lucky? Don't you know why I have been cursed to this desolate afterlife? Don't you understand why Jack Crawford wasn't?"  
  
Breathing hard, she looked every which direction in search of an answer, but nothing was there to provide it.   
  
Irritated with her hesitance, Brigham growled his frustration before roaring, "You know who it is that you want! You've always known, despite your goddamned stubbornness! I knew, too, you see. I knew, but I let you slip away. I left that part of me unfinished. I died with regrets, Starling! You can't let yourself do the same!"  
  
Breathing slowly returning to some form of regularity, Starling felt her tears crusting on her face. Realization dawned on her, and her eyes widened with the proximity of release. "You mean..."  
  
"YES!" Brigham hissed victoriously. "YES! Don't you see? Crawford can be happy; for he has everything he ever wanted. I, on the other hand, I am doomed to wander this earth for I never tried. I asked but I never tried. It's my fate to warn others to live for no regrets. Starling, you bear the largest regret, and you wear it as your chain, and it weighs you down from ever advancing! You cannot let that consume you, or you will suffer my fate!" He paused again, harshly, before continuing as an afterthought, "Promise me, Starling! Promise me you'll learn from this! Promise me you'll find your happiness. Promise me you'll live the life that I didn't get to live!"  
  
"But..." Starling's breath snagged. "WHY?! Why must it be *him* that I love? Why do you people push me to him when I know it's wrong? Why can't I live IN PEACE? Why do you *want* me to submit to what I know is immoral? Why-"   
  
"BECAUSE YOU'RE UNHAPPY!" he shouted, voice large enough to coax any mountain to tremble in fear. "BECAUSE YOU CAN'T CONTROL IT! BECAUSE YOU ARE HUMAN, CLARICE STARLING, AND YOU CAN'T HAVE POWER OVER WHO YOU LOVE!"  
  
Pitifully, Starling turned away, tears again released. She wept openly, now, unafraid to show them to anyone. Screw it. Screw it all. "But...the FBI-"  
  
"Is full of corruption. It holds you as its virtue, Starling, and only you. I'm dead, Crawford's dead. You're left to your conspirators. People like Noonan and Pearsall and Sneed. Face it, Starling, the FBI's a bitch."  
  
"But virtue, like you said-"  
  
"It's a bitch, too."  
  
"And incorruptibility?"  
  
"A bitch."  
  
"And courage?"  
  
"A bitch?"  
  
"Life?"  
  
"A bitch."  
  
She swallowed and looked upward. "And God?"  
  
"God?" Brigham snickered, looking up as well, as though in need of vindication. "He's the biggest bitch of them all." He paused, a look of distaste on his face. "He does this for His divine amusement, Starling. He tortures you because it's fun. Don't you imagine He's getting a royal kick out of this? Out of your pain? I'd think so."   
  
"Then let me wake!" she screamed, her voice going hoarse from the constant tear at her vocals. "Leave me my pain and my reasoning and my resonance and everything else and let me wake!"  
  
And she collapsed, burying her face in her hands, sobbing without knowing how or why, just that she wished this wretched night to be over so that she might breathe and consider, wake in peace.  
  
The winds around her stopped whistling their sad melody. Leaves, likewise, stopped crackling, snow stopped crunching, and the air ceased to chill her skin. Leveling her breathing once more, Starling raised her tear-stained face to her very own bedroom. She saw she was lying in a tangle with her blankets on the floor, and that dawn, Christmas day, was peering through the windows.   
  
As her cries diminished with a loud echo, she released a deep breath, but knew not the flavor it carried. "I'm home," she gasped. "I'm home."  
  
Fighting to her feet, Starling helped herself onto the mattress. The unwanted feel of drying tears on her face left her only with the knowledge that what she saw was true, and there was no reason to argue it.  
  
Dr. Lecter was in Buenos Aries, and she knew this. She also knew that she could have people down there as quick as that afternoon, and one of the most infamous manhunts of the decade would finally lay at rest.   
  
However, she knew other things, too.  
  
And, without strenuous forethought or tedious mental torture, she also knew what she had to do.  
  
Unhappiness was a disease that remains only with those who choose not to fix it. Should she leave it unattended? Should she risk wandering in the days of her afterlife as the image she took of John Brigham?  
  
Jack Crawford in a hula skirt because he doesn't care. Because he has everything he wants.  
  
She would cure her unhappiness, and face that challenge that had stalked her for ten years. Serious revelations often are the product of horrific experiences, and she knew in all the pains she felt the night before, that hers was no different, even if it was...  
  
Her revelation would lead to her salvation. She would see to that. After all, she was alive now, and today was another day. Tomorrow held the future, the past behind her, and she would see to righting the wrong she committed herself, to curing her unhappiness. To facing this life that was, as Brigham so eloquently put it, a bitch.   
  
She would learn so much with these revelations, avert her life to what it should be, and live.   
  
  
FIN 


	4. Epilogue

So the question was.what did she do now?  
  
It seemed rather obvious at first. Starling's natural and primary instinct was to send in her letter of resignation, for she knew that even if she couldn't find Dr. Lecter and make her amends - random as they might seem, considering her feelings on this matter as of yesterday afternoon differed drastically - that the specter of Brigham had delivered the most valuable information. There was no way she could remain with the FBI. Not after that.  
  
However, of all the realizations birthed in the prior evening's adventures, her impending leave really was old news, and otherwise unremarkable. Sometime in the duration of her prolonged career, Starling had arrived at the notion that after Chesapeake, she would need to begin job hunting.  
  
But never, while knowing somewhere in her deeper though feverishly denied subconscious had she suspected that the reason of her leaving would similarly coincide with her decision to turn to Dr. Lecter as a means of escape.  
  
Naturally, after her planned letter of resignation was delivered, she would hop on the first flight out. But Starling, halfway dressed and ready to go, the thought of packing not in any sense of proximity, realized the flow of events couldn't possibly run that smoothly. After all, it was Christmas Day, and chances of booking a flight anywhere - especially a place as random as Buenos Aires, were remote. However, she likewise knew that she had to try, even if it was a shot in the dark.  
  
Still not bothering to pack, she jumped in her car as soon as she had everything ready. Christmas Day traffic was light though it still annoyed her: the families bounding from location to location, polluting the streets with unnecessary action. If only they could agree on a singular place!  
  
However, Special Agent Starling of the FBI managed her destination without much trouble. And once inside Quantico, she used her computer for the last time, inspecting the prospective situation on all possible flights in the area. She checked Washington, knowing that would be too fortunate, and wasn't surprised when it read back negative. Should fate have handed her a rose of that color, she wasn't sure she would have accepted in anyway. There was something about things being too easy that unnerved her. Starling knew every deal had a double-face, and from Brigham's delicate illustrating of God's will to play with her, she knew to watch her step.  
  
There were no flights today anywhere, which irritated her still. Though Starling wanted to be careful, she also desperately wanted to arrive in time to celebrate Christmas with Dr. Lecter. It didn't occur to her that while she had seen the outside of his residence during her brief visitation with Jack Crawford that she had no way of feasibly knowing its exact location. The research alone, deciding when he would have arrived from July, if this was his first stop outside America, what name he would disguise himself under, would take weeks all in itself. Perhaps, in a straighter frame of mind, Starling would have taken this into consideration as the anecdote to her screaming nerves. However, a woman possessed, it hardly flickered to occurrence. All she knew was there were still weeks separating her from Dr. Lecter, and that thought nearly drove her out of her mind.  
  
The situation on flights didn't hamper her desire to flee the city, though, and Starling made quick arrangements. On a piece of notebook paper, she hastily scribbled:  
  
P:  
  
I quit.  
  
Starling  
  
Though it left open the window to many questions at her seemingly spontaneous leave, the thought that she wouldn't be here to deal with them excited her. It was the best Christmas present she had ever received. Total freedom from all prior links and chains and cuffs and.well.everything. Utter and complete liberation; a breath of fresh air.  
  
Knowing that the option of leaving this afternoon was entirely trivial, Starling felt she could pace herself and take things down a notch. Through the Internet, she discovered there was a flight for Buenos Aires scheduled for the following week in a town approximately fifty miles from here. She decided to take her things and leave, rent out a hotel and wait out the time. However, before that, she would stop at Ardelia's for Christmas dinner, as her friend thoughtfully invited her the day before. Merely the knowledge that she could dine with them without feeling that pang of loss made her rush with excitement.  
  
The number of shops open on Christmas day was few, but Starling was grateful to find a couple of Grinch's who refused to settle for the holiday. She bought her friend a pair of earrings and her daughter a teddy bear. Starling didn't know Ardelia's husband too well, but she figured a coffee mug quaintly adorned with 'World's Greatest Dad' would suffice.  
  
While she didn't feel comfortable dropping in unannounced on Christmas Day, she didn't know how she would phrase her change of heart over the phone. Therefore, after a hasty two-second wrapping job, Starling set off for her friend's house, knowing it was for the last time.  
  
All worries were pushed aside as she arrived. The look on Ardelia's face as she opened the door was at once shocked and ecstatic. Baffled, she let out a squeal of glee and they tightly embraced, careful of her friend's round belly, and she was excitedly hurried in.  
  
"You made it!" Ardelia cried. "You have no idea how worried I've been about you! Damn, girl, you sounded like you were about to do something drastic yesterday. Come hither the Ghost of Christmas Depression!" She smiled warmly; unaware of the nerve she came close to striking. "What made you change your mind?"  
  
Starling chuckled, handing Ardelia's wide-eyed daughter, who was shyly concealed by her mother's leg, her Christmas package. "Let's just say.I had an interesting evening."  
  
"Don't tell me!" Ardelia's eyes closed and her index fingers went to massage her temples, imitating the look of a psychic. "You met some dashing, debonair man, flew to Vegas, got hitched, and found your Christmas spirit."  
  
"'Delia, you're amazing."  
  
"Well, get your tardy ass in here," her friend exclaimed, grabbing her arm. Pausing a minute, she turned to her daughter and said, "Mommy did not just say 'ass,' okay?" As the little tike ran off, giggling to undoubtedly tell on her mother's light profanity, Ardelia rolled her eyes and explained, "Mike's been getting on my case for having a 'potty mouth' around Ashley. He says I need to get it taken care of before the next one is born."  
  
Offering a warm smile, Starling handed her the rest of the gifts and stepped in. "Ah, kids are kids. If she doesn't use them now, she'll use them sometime."  
  
"Exactly!" Ardelia yelped. "What's the fuss about?"  
  
Christmas breakfast was wonderful. They reminisced, told stories they'd told to countless others over and over, laughing as though it was the first time. Starling came to really like Ardelia's husband, a man she had previously not known. And Ashley, shy until complimented, continuously clung to her bear and offered a thousand thanks.  
  
When it was over, Starling felt something relative to pain strike her. She would miss Ardelia, miss her completely. But, in retrospect, leaving this life meant leaving everything that came with it, and what she hoped awaited her on the other side of the fence promised to be much greener in general shade, and hopeful in scenery.  
  
Then came the goodbyes. While Ardelia didn't know and never could the actions her friend was about to take, she seemed to have a sixth sense about her that knew this was the end. At the doorway, they hugged tightly, whispered their goodbyes, and parted, neither dry-eyed.  
  
"You come back now," her friend called after her as she was halfway to her car. "I've missed you, Starling."  
  
"You, too, 'Delia."  
  
When she pulled out of Ardelia's driveway, Starling wiped away the rest of the tears. Instead of pointing her vehicle home, she steered it out of town for the last time. Goodbyes said, closure obtained, she was fleeing this self-constructed prison, wasted years in pining after something she couldn't have without severe personal loss. There was no going back.  
  
* * *  
  
While her flight was not until the following week, Starling felt the need to make all arrangements far in advance. Thus, once arriving at her destination several hours after leaving Washington, she had settled into a cheap motel, dropped off her things, and retreated to the airport to reserve her seat on the first available flight out.  
  
It was only then that she began having her doubts, her fears. Once she arrived, what then? How did she even begin looking for him? While she was no longer an agent - or wouldn't be, once Pearsall read her abrupt though final note of resignation - she could put to use her remaining connections before her disappearance was reported.  
  
But, Starling decided not to worry about that now. After all, there was little she could do here. Once she arrived, she could worry all she liked. Right now, all that mattered was that she had escaped and that she wasn't going back, regardless whether she found Dr. Lecter, and even then, if he still wanted her.  
  
An image of Brigham, wandering around in the shadows of an imminent afterlife struck her, and she knew that this was simply a chance she had to take, no matter the cost. At least, in the end, she could never say she didn't try.  
  
Arrangements made, Starling turned to leave the airport and enjoy the rest of the most eventful Christmas with perhaps a movie, should she find an open theatre. She noted the darkened sky with a grim smile. Twenty-four hours prior, she would never have imagined herself here, making this gigantic, perhaps suicidal leap. Now, she didn't know if she could see it any other way.  
  
Even if there weren't a movie theatre open, perhaps there would be a coffee shop run by a nice Jewish family somewhere. Anything to settle down to was fine with her.  
  
Turning to leave, Starling's eyes caught a crowd of people arriving from an incoming flight. Though this was nothing particularly unusual about airports - hardly a novelty - she stopped to watch them, wondering if she resembled the face of anyone who would travel on holiday, amongst the other noted non-religious types. Those Crawford had mentioned the night before in his rampage on why no one cares about the Christmas spirit.  
  
The crowd was unsurprisingly small, most slinging arms over each other's shoulders and wishing belated though equally Merry Christmases. Starling smiled to herself and turned to leave, but something.impossible caught her eye. Time froze for her, and found herself trapped in the next instant. Her heart stopped beating, her pulse (in direct counterpoint) started racing. All over, she felt herself clam up before breaking into unavoidable tremors.  
  
How was this possible?  
  
Judging by the look on his face, Dr. Lecter was similarly stunned that she should be here, in this airport of all places, just in time to greet him on his flight. Their eyes locked and held as the people around them passed, and finally when all fell silent again, he approached.  
  
Starling's knees trembled and her breath quivered. Having him here before her was quite different than knowing she was going to him. She had suspected she would have a week to compose her thoughts and feelings and everything she planned to say, and while this did not exactly upset anything, the prospect of being tongue-tied in front of this man was very uncomfortable.  
  
When they were only separated by two feet of air, Dr. Lecter finally stopped, eyes studying her suspiciously. They conversed wordlessly for a minute, allowing her subconscious time to collect her thoughts before spilling them once more.  
  
"I hardly expected a welcoming committee," he said finally, forgoing the need for a formal greeting. "Pardon me for being overly forward, but, what are you doing here, Clarice?"  
  
It felt weird to hear her name uttered, her first name. She didn't believe anyone had since she saw him last.  
  
One way or another, she found her voice, and without any forethought, felt herself blurt out the only thing that was natural to her. The truth. "I left to book a flight to Buenos Aires. This was the nearest airport.with a flight next week."  
  
"Buenos Aires?" He arched a brow. "What on earth were you hoping to find there?"  
  
"I knew you were there." That sentence left her fluidly, so easily that she had to pace herself. If she wasn't careful, she would find herself explaining the image of Jack Crawford in a hula skirt.  
  
Though her statement notably surprised him, he evidently decided not to comment. Instead, he stepped back, eyebrows perking once more. "Coming to make an arrest, Clarice?"  
  
"No. I was coming to see you."  
  
"And you were so sure I was in Buenos Aires? Hmmm." Dr. Lecter appeared to lose himself in thought, though finally allowed her to see some reserved amusement. "I see my wiles are clearly no match for your own, Clarice. I was sure that I had exercised the extremity in caution since our last parting."  
  
"What are you doing here, Dr. Lecter?"  
  
Her directness surprised them both, but similarly offered some pleasure. She knew he wasn't accustomed to being blatantly demanded of something, and her audacity succeeded in surprising herself. However, she really wanted to know. Wanted that assurance that she wasn't dreaming, that he was standing there before her, even if it made positively no sense. What, in the past twenty-four hours, had?  
  
"Isn't it obvious, Clarice?" he charged back. "Though I admit it is a bit out of my way, I do enjoy going to some lengths for last-minute Christmas shopping."  
  
"Shopping for whom?" Starling's pulse was level again, and the love of the spar flustered within her.  
  
Oh God, don't let me wake if I'm dreaming.  
  
It didn't occur to her until after the question was asked that she might not like the answer. Similarly, the thought that followed soothed her momentarily agonized soul. She had seen the inside of his dwelling last night, with comically dressed Crawford, and knew from that that he was alone.  
  
"For whom do you think?" Dr. Lecter retorted. "I suppose I should send Cordell a token of my esteem, hmmm? Perhaps something for Barney. Incidentally, Clarice, I hope you had a happy birthday. I would have sent you something, but under recent conditions."  
  
His distracted explanations were getting on her nerves, and with a rush of impatience, she rolled her eyes and snapped, "Why are you here, Dr. Lecter? And *how* are you here? I checked the airlines-"  
  
"Surely you didn't investigate the incoming flights?" he returned with a small smile. "As inconvenient as it might seem, they do not constantly coincide with those passing."  
  
Grumblingly, she turned her eyes to the ground and conceded. "Yeah, yeah."  
  
"Now, Clarice, would you indulge me in a question?"  
  
"I'm sure you have plenty."  
  
"Indeed." Though there wasn't anything terribly provocative latched onto his voice, it did coax her to look up. There, trapped in his gaze, she felt her nerves pulsing around her. The inquiries he had all came with answers, but whether he would believe them or not was an entirely separate matter. Her own reasoning sounded ridiculous to her, but she knew through a series of coincidences that her prior night's experience was authentic, and that alone persuaded her to continue.  
  
"How did you know I was in Buenos Aires?" was the first question.  
  
"If I tell you, you'll never believe me."  
  
The smile he offered was kind and challenging, the twinkle in his eyes warm and familiar. "Try me," he dared.  
  
Okay, Starling. Suck it up. At least *you* know you're being honest.  
  
"Jack Crawford." There. It was out. Released. The identity of her mysterious benefactor, one of three reasons she was spontaneously making a world-trek to see a man she should rightfully be trying to arrest. It was crazy and unbelievable.  
  
However, it was the truth. The only truth she had at the minute. Anything else was null and void. He would know if she lied to him.  
  
A blink. "Pardon?"  
  
"Mr. Crawford. He and." This sounded so utterly outlandish to her own ears, and having lived it personally the night before, she knew it was true. Dr. Lecter, on the other hand.she sucked it up and forced herself to continue, ".and a few others.well.I trust you're acquainted with 'A Christmas Carol'?"  
  
"Yes. As well as several other noted works by dear Mr. Dickens." His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What are you trying to say, Clarice? Perhaps if you blurt it out quickly, the effect will be relative to one of speedily removing a Band-Aid."  
  
Their eyes held for a few minutes as Starling constructed and tore apart sentences that would make her explanation a little more believable, but she knew how it was destined to sound, no matter how she worded it. "You're going to think I've lost it," she warned him, gaze breaking from his, darting in every which direction.  
  
"My dear, as far as the levels of one's sanity, I doubt my esteem in that genre is anything you need to concern yourself with," he observed, once more persuading her to look at him. And she knew then that he spoke the truth. After all, how many had deemed him insane? When did one line end and another begin?  
  
Back to consensus barriers. Would they always be on separate levels? She hoped not.  
  
"Evelda Drumgo, Paul Krendler, Jack Crawford, and John Brigham all.appeared to me last night." There. It was out. No going back.  
  
Predictably, her eyes couldn't hold his and dropped once more. The worst was over.  
  
"In a dream, do you mean?"  
  
"No. I mean really.appeared." Starling closed her eyes, held them there, and looked at him directly when she was ready. "It sounds crazy. It probably is crazy. But I saw things.past, present.all that. That's how I knew where you were. Mr. Crawford was showing me the present, and-"  
  
"Do you mean to say you personally lived out 'A Christmas Carol'?" Dr. Lecter asked skeptically. His eyes, however, remained kind. Unlike anyone she knew, he maintained admiration and respect, and had not yet consigned her to the stature of 'weirdo.'  
  
"Sounds wild, doesn't it?"  
  
"I've heard many things, Clarice, and while that does indeed sound." He tilted his head in thought. "*Out* there.it's hardly what I would classify as crazy. You've gone through a lot in the past few months. I suppose it is safe to conjure up a dream of that nature on the very night it is supposed to occur, and-"  
  
Furiously, she shook her head. "No! That's just it! It wasn't a dream. I couldn't have implemented in my subconscious that you were in Buenos Aires. Mr. Crawford showed me. And John.he told me things that were real.*had* to be real. If it were a dream, I would've shaken it off. But it convinced me to find you, and not for the FBI. Brigham stressed that to death. They persuaded me."  
  
Predictably, Dr. Lecter's eyebrows rose again. "Jack Crawford would encourage you to find me, and not for purposes of professional gain?"  
  
"Mr. Crawford said that death enlightens you. Liberates you. Something about not liking green olives in life, but loving them now. He used that as an example. He said he wanted me to do what makes me happy, because I'm unhappy." She sighed, focused more now on making him believe her story than caring how crazy it sounded. "And Krendler showed me the past. Our past. Pretty damn near every significant meeting we've had. And Brigham.showed me the future."  
  
Whether or not he believed her, Dr. Lecter did appear interested in what the future held in store. "Oh really? What did you see?"  
  
Just the thought of the horrible things she saw nearly brought tears to her eyes. How that could have been her future, how this conversation could have been much worse, how her choices might have differed had any specter other than John Brigham led her down that path, with or without knowledge of what lay ahead.  
  
"I saw myself.I had everything I wanted in the FBI."  
  
"Well, that should make you happy," Dr. Lecter observed, earning a sharp glare from her in the next instant. "Should, but obviously doesn't, or else it wouldn't sting so much to admit. May I ask at what price?"  
  
"Your life."  
  
"Hmmm." His gaze darkened for a minute, though not menacingly. "That would put a damper on things."  
  
Starling swallowed and nodded her agreement. "Yeah.Brigham said when I went back I had two choices. Find you to turn you in, 'cause Mr. Crawford told me where you were. Or."  
  
"Or?"  
  
The words were with her, there on the tip of her tongue. One utterance and all might be over. However, pride held her back. She didn't know if she could deal with rejection, to put her feelings out there before them with the risk of him laughing it aside. While it seemed his feelings weren't so ambiguous, she simply couldn't stand being dismissed as a schoolgirl crush.  
  
So, she did the only thing that came natural. "Quid pro quo."  
  
Another look of surprise. She could get used to this. "Clarice?"  
  
"Why are *you* here? And the truth would be appreciated this time."  
  
A few seconds of silent stares, and now, she didn't falter. At last he smiled, and she knew, even without the words that followed, that everything would be all right.  
  
"You never cease to amaze me," he commented, shaking his head. "I'm here, slightly late, I'll admit, to spend the holiday season with the one closest to me. At least, my objective was to try." Each word was like a drop of sweet wine, relief and more than relief spreading through her. She couldn't help the smile that stretched from ear to ear, nor could she stop from taking a step toward him. "I'll concede," he continued a beat later, "I had not thought I would be quite so gratified with your disposition. I thought it would be progress if you didn't slam the door in my face and rush immediately to the phone to contact your saviors."  
  
"Then you believe me?"  
  
"Ah, it's your turn, Clarice. Quid pro quo, as you so eloquently put it." Dr. Lecter chuckled a bit at her frustration before coyly titling his head. "Why else would you come to Buenos Aires, if not to arrest me?"  
  
Starling sighed and finally broke their eye contact, fighting for words. Even now that she had her blessed assurance, making such an admittance still struck her as difficult.  
  
It was difficult for both of them, she knew, and it was her turn now.  
  
"Because Brigham appeared to me as so awful, so dark and deformed. He said it was because he never tried, because he died with regrets, and that the same would happen to me if I didn't get over myself and." She looked back to him and exhaled. "And find you, for the right reason."  
  
"And what, pray, is the right reason, Agent Starling?"  
  
"The reason that makes me the worst agent in the Bureau's history?"  
  
"Hmmm.I believe that trophy was already rewarded to Paul Krendler."  
  
She smiled. So this was it. From his eyes, she knew her explanation was all he expected, and furthermore, that she couldn't be questioned. The truth was out and couldn't be taken back.  
  
"So.what now?" she asked.  
  
"Now? I believe we still have a few hours to celebrate the holiday," Dr. Lecter observed, briefly referring to his wristwatch. "How fortunate that you were here to welcome me back to America. Odd, but fortunate. I admit I was taken aback for a minute, though this has proven quite beneficial." He smiled, offering his arm. "Shall we?"  
  
Once they were joined at the arms, Starling knew she had done the right thing, that everything would be all right from now on, and that while she would miss Ardelia, there was nothing in the old life to hold her there. The man beside her rumbled his agreement, and she said a silent thank-you to the specters of yesterday, bidding them all a discreet though intensely satisfied farewell.  
  
As they left, conversation resumed naturally, the sort of dialogue all strive for in life. Constant sparring, someone of equal intellect to battle with, agree with, laugh with. It was as though they knew that it would come to this, sooner or later.  
  
"So, these spirits that visited you," Dr. Lecter said as they walked out. "Did any of them apologize for the appalling lack of originality they exhibited in their blatant plagiarism from a nineteenth century novelist?"  
  
"I told Drumgo that she was at risk for copyright infringement."  
  
However long this conversation lasted did not matter. There would always be a topic to debate, an issue to question, something to make fun of, and decisions to make. Starling knew, similarly, that there would be hard times. This did not frighten her, for she knew in the end, it was all worth it.  
  
And so she faced the world, wiser, arm linked with the man she loved, prepared to live. 


End file.
